


Away from the Sun

by Sermocinare



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Parent/Child Incest, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sermocinare/pseuds/Sermocinare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie triggers something from Adrian's past</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away from the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Watchmen kinkmeme on LJ

Eddie isn't quite sure about what just happened. Things just happened so fast, and what's more, they don't make any sense at all. Confused, he looks down at the tooth marks on his hand, small red lines that form two mirroring crescents on both sides of his thumb, some of them filling up with blood that's seeping through the punctured skin. He had meant to grab Adrian's throat, and that had never been a problem before. Actually, Adrian had asked him to do it on several occasions before. But he had been distracted, and Adrian had moved, and his hand had grasped Adrian's face instead, covering Adrian's mouth. And that's where it had all gone awry. He remembers Adrian making a strange, inhuman noise, something caught between fear and aggression, and the way Adrian's body had first gone rigid before exploding into motion, twisting, lashing out, biting and, in the end, throwing him off the bed and onto the floor. And before Eddie had gotten his wits together, Adrian had been up and running like a spooked deer, though his flight hadn't lasted long, ending in the slam of the bathroom door.

Eddie shakes his head, slowly getting up off the floor. He collects his pants and pulls them on, then stands in the bedroom, uncertain of what to do next. He should probably just leave. Whatever this is, Eddie doesn't have to put up with it. To hell with Adrian and his weird behavior. And it's not like Eddie owes him anything. After all, they're just fucking. Nothing more. But Eddie just can't get that noise out of his head, the animal pain that echoed through it. He's heard it before, in the dark, wet jungle and in the even darker corners of his own mind, where he keeps those things locked away that even a comedian can't possibly turn into something to make you laugh about.

With a sigh, Eddie pads over to the bathroom door and knocks.

“Leave.” It's supposed to be a command, but the shakiness of Adrian's voice turns it into something more like a plea.

Eddie turns the knob and opens the door, carefully peering around it and into the darkness that is only broken by the sliver of light that falls in through the door. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, Eddie can make out Adrian's form, sitting in the far end of the bathtub, legs drawn up to his chest, forehead resting against his knees.

Eddie flips the light switch, and Adrian's head shoots up, green eyes glittering with anger and pain. “I said leave.”

For a moment, Eddie is worried that Adrian will launch himself at him like some crazed, wounded animal, but then he notices that Adrian's whole body is shaking.

“I don't want you to see me like this.” It's true. Adrian doesn't want Eddie to see him like this. He doesn't want anyone to see him like this. It's why he put all of it away, every memory, every vulnerability, locked away behind layers upon layers of armor, an impenetrable fortress of self-control and intellect. It's why he hasn't got friends, only acquaintances. No lovers, just casual fucks. Like Eddie. Who is sitting perched on the rim of the tub, looking at him cautiously, as if Adrian were some strange, alien creature that he can't possibly make sense of.

“What the hell just happened?” Eddie is still watching him, blinking. There is no aggression in his voice, just confusion.

“It's nothing.” Adrian tries to make himself sound dismissive, casual, but his vocal chords are betraying him, just like the rest of his body. He just can't stop shaking, and he is afraid that if he tries to calm himself with deep breaths, he'll start hyperventilating instead.

“You bit my hand. And you're sitting in the bathtub, buck naked and shaking like a leaf.” A simple statement of facts.

“You don't want to know.” Adrian's voice has dropped to a whisper, and he hides his face again.

For a moment, there is nothing but silence while Eddie thinks about this. Yes, part of him doesn't want to know, mostly because he's afraid that he already does. Or at least, he can take an educated guess. He's not stupid, and he's seen more things, bad things, than most people. But if he ends this here, if he gets up and walks away, he can pretend that he doesn't know. Pretend this never happened, and that nothing has changed. If he stays, he won't have that option.

Adrian hears movement, and then the door closes behind Eddie. He lets out an inaudible sigh, curling up tighter, trying to focus his mind on calming things. He is, once again, alone. He has always been alone with this, it's what he's used to, the only way he knows how to deal. Don't talk about it, don't tell anybody. You can never tell anybody. This is a secret, just between us. You and me. Do you understand, Adrian? No, no. Think of something else. When the door opens again, he almost jumps, but then, something soft and heavy is laid down around his shoulders.

Adrian wraps himself into the blanket as if it were some kind of cocoon, or maybe armor. And he looks so damn lost, so broken and vulnerable that Eddie has the sudden urge to wrap his arms around him and carry him back to the bedroom, or at least run his hand through the mussed-up blond hair. But he doesn't. He just sits there, waiting, until Adrian has calmed himself enough to emerge again, looking at him with weary eyes.

“Say, you got anything I can put on here?” Eddie finally asks, holding up his mauled hand and wriggling it slightly.

“There's some disinfectant in the medicine cabinet. Behind the mirror.” A short pause, then: “I'm sorry.”

Eddie gives a noncommittal grunt and starts rooting through the medicine cabinet, unearthing the disinfectant and some swabs. Carefully, he dabs the fluid onto the small bite marks on his hand, wincing a bit at the sting. Buying time. If for him or for Adrian, he doesn't really know. Throwing the used swabs into the small waste bin, he then turns back to Adrian, who, it appears, has been watching him closely this whole time.

“Doesn't look very comfortable, you sitting there like that. You want to switch that tub for the couch?”

This actually gets a flitting ghost of a smile from Adrian. Slowly, Adrian gets up, supporting himself with his hand on the wall, not trusting his knees quite yet, the other hand holding the blanket clasped at his throat. Stepping out of the tub, he walks into the living room, the cold tiles underneath his feet giving way first to smooth hardwood, then a soft rug. Sitting down on the couch, he automatically presses his back into the corner where the back and armrests meet, and wraps himself into the blanket. Eddie sits down next to him, not right next to him, but leaving a bit of a distance.

“You still want me to leave?” Eddie's voice is both surprisingly gentle and neutral, not giving any hint as to whether he wants to stay or not. Which leaves the decision up to Adrian, and at the moment, Adrian doesn't know what he wants.

He wants to be alone to lick his wounds and rebuild his defenses. He wants to show his wounds to someone, in the hopes that they might not hurt as much once he's done that. He wants help. He doesn't want to appear vulnerable. He doesn't want anyone to see the ugliness, the shamefulness in his past, but he's tired of being perfect all the time.

“Stay.” It's less a word than a sigh, and sounds almost defeated.

Again, silence reigns for a while before Eddie breaks it: “So, where were you? Back when you decided to maul my hand?”

Adrian closes his eyes and leans his head back until it's resting on top of the backrest. He frowns, lips pressed together, a thin line appearing on his forehead. Eddie can see the long fingers tightening around the edges of the blanket, gripping them until the knuckles stand out sharply.

“Back home. In my bed. My father, he used to... I...” Adrian swallows hard, the lines on his face deepening.

It's almost painful to watch, seeing him choke on the words, and Eddie has to look away for a moment. When he returns his gaze, he finds Adrian looking at him, his eyes like pits, deep and filled with a pain as sharp as glass and broken bones.

“It hurt. And he didn't want me to scream, so he'd put his hand over my mouth. Every time.”

It's the last bit that makes Eddie fervently wish that he'd poured himself a drink, anything to get that sudden cold feeling out of his stomach. Adrian just keeps looking at him, almost as if he's searching for something. Eddie doesn't know what Adrian expects to find. After all, he's not a good man, and Adrian knows that. Adrian knows what he's done, and for a moment, Eddie wishes he hadn't done it, especially not the thing with Sally, because it makes him feel like maybe Adrian is putting him on the same level with that sick bastard of a father of his, and maybe he's right...

But before that train of thought can get anywhere that's even worse, Eddie rubs his hand over his face, putting it away.

“I'm sorry.”

This time, it's Adrian who looks away, eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching. He hates those words. He's said them many times, back when he was still a mask. Said them to scared and bruised victims, or to the families of those he couldn't save. And he hated himself for it, because he knows how hollow those words are, and just how little comfort they give. It's why he never told anyone. He didn't want them to say that they're sorry. Sorry that he had to go through that, sorry that he got hurt, soiled, broken. Glad that it didn't happen to them.

“I don't need your pity.”

“Well, you ain't getting any.”

Adrian turns his head, blinking once in confusion, and sees that Eddie is smiling, a challenging spark in his eyes: “I don't see anything worth pityin'. You're not some scared little kid any more. You're Adrian Veidt, you're goddamn Ozymandias, and he eats bastards like your dad for breakfast. So why the hell should I pity you.”

For a moment, Adrian doesn't know what to do with those words. The hurt little boy is still too close, the child who would sit in the bathtub for hours, trying to wash away the memory of the touch and crying where no one could see him. But Eddie is right, that boy is only a ghost now, a memory, one of the many that make him into who he is.

Adrian smiles back, a thin, cautious smile, his defensiveness slowly melting away.

“So, is there anything else I shouldn't do if I want to keep your teeth and claws off my skin, and my ass in your bed?”

Again, it takes Adrian a moment to consider this. But then, he nods, the smile still in place: “Yes.”


End file.
